


Closer

by fanfictionbubbles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bets & Wagers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, H/D Fan Fair 2019, Humor, Injured Draco Malfoy, M/M, Magic Theory, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Oblivious Harry Potter, One Shot, Post-Hogwarts, Quidditch, Quidditch Injuries, Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy, Quidditch Team Owner Harry Potter, Secondary Theme: Book Fair, Sexy Draco Malfoy, Stubborn Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2020-10-28 20:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20784275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictionbubbles/pseuds/fanfictionbubbles
Summary: Harry makes a bet with Ron when he's not paying attention and ends up one Quidditch team up. Fine, he can deal with that. But then he finds out who the Seeker is and suddenly there's a whole lot more to deal with.





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[94](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16er_sVwwFtbVQxtiFqHRWhw09kwNYhywsB-R48qtVPU/edit#).
> 
> Thank you so much to my betas, and thank you to the mods. I hope everyone enjoys the fic!

The Cannons are playing the Arrows, and even though it is raining, and Harry is tired from doing nothing, and it is guaranteed to be an awful match because neither teams can play, Harry has come along with Ron. They are huddled in their seat at the top of the stadium - Ron refuses to buy a box because he says the atmosphere is better in the seats - with strong _Impervius_ charms around them. There is a good collection of people, considering neither the Arrows nor the Cannons are very good. The stadium is filled mostly with orange, a spattering of blue and silver sitting at the visiting team end. 

“We’re going to win today, I can feel it,” Ron says to Harry. They’ve been watching for an hour and so far no one has scored, and Harry has spotted the Snitch three times. 

“I don’t know which team is worse,” Harry replies, mainly because he knows it’ll wind Ron up. “Your coach is abysmal, not to mention your manager keeps trading all your good players, and your owner takes no notice! The Cannons don’t have a good team behind them.”

“Oh yeah, you could do their job, could you?” Ron laughs and Harry tries to scowl at him. His unemployment status is a point of hilarity for Ron, who works hard at the joke shop with George.

“Anyone could do their job. Even you.”

“Twat,” Ron says with no anger. Harry watches as the Snitch flies past the Cannon Seeker, who doesn’t even blink. He’s too busy scowling at the Arrows Seeker. “It’s a reserve Seeker, apparently,” Ron says, catching Harry looking at him. “Don’t know why they used their reserve Seeker. The Cannons are definitely going to win.”

Harry isn’t sure. The reserve Seeker is fit, lean in the torso and strong in the thigh, with an excellent bum. Not that the bum is important to play Quidditch. It’s just a nice addition for Harry. The Arrows Seeker suddenly moves and Harry’s eyes dart around to see the Snitch. The Cannons Seeker starts moving too, and Harry sees it, streaking in front of the two of them.

“The Cannons are going to lose!” Harry yells as they stand to their feet. The crowd around them shout, cheering on their Seekers. Harry can’t tell which set of supporters are louder, but it’s the first piece of action that they’ve seen in an hour.

“Not a chance in hell!” Ron screams back as the Seekers bash into each other, flying hard. The Snitch is in front of them, beating its wings seemingly faster than the Seekers can fly.

“Come on! The Arrows have got this,” Harry thumps Ron on the shoulder as they Arrows Seeker takes a minute lead. The Cannons Seeker grits his teeth, pushing forward in challenge.

“Wanna bet?”

Harry shakes hands with Ron without listening to the terms, his eyes stuck on the Seekers hurtling in front of him. 

Closer. Closer. Closer.

...

“You did say you would,” Ron says, cheerfully sitting on the bench outside the team changing rooms. There’s a general sense of excitement in the hallway, and Harry can hear the celebration coming from the Cannons changing room. Ron had come to congratulate them, and to introduce Harry to the current owner of the Appleby Arrows. He is now humming happily. Harry scowls at him. He hadn't said he would. He hadn't been listening. It wasn't a fair bet. If the Cannons won, Harry buys lunch. If the Arrows lost Harry buys the Arrows. It wasn’t a fair bet at all.

“I didn’t know what I was agreeing to,” Harry grumbles.

“And yet you still shook. Not my fault mate.” Ron grins. Harry hadn’t even realised the Arrows were up for sale. He’d been played. He had been utterly played. And now he’s here waiting for the former owner of the Arrows. 

“You know, I don’t actually have to do this. Bets aren’t legally binding,” Harry reminds Ron, not moving from where he’s stood anxiously trying to pretend that nothing’s wrong.

“Yeah, but you are going to do it,” Ron says, still gleefully humming. Harry sighs. He can’t back down from a bet. Never could, never will. “Think about it this way, you have the money, you have the time, and you have to start getting a life. This could be good for you!” 

Harry glares at Ron. He was definitely played.

And Ron’s getting lunch out of it.

...

It’s the first Arrows practice since Harry bought the team, which had been a surprisingly easy thing to do. The former owner had seemed desperate to be rid of them, and not only was he doing that, but he was also selling them to _the_ Harry Potter. Harry had his lawyer (Dean) look over the contract, and had paid far too much money for a Quidditch team he didn’t want.

But, best to make the most of it.

He floos into his office at the Arrows stadium. It’s next to the manager’s office, and two away from the coach’s office. The lockers are down the hall. Seamus explained to Harry that, unlike football, the owner of the team is involved in the day to day running, which Harry already knew but didn’t know why. “Best to know what’s going on with ye money” Seamus had said.

And so here Harry is. First training session for his new Quidditch team. His. New. Quidditch. Team.

Fucking Ron.

He can hear the team down on the pitch, shouting and arguing with each other, ignoring the whistle that Harry assumes is the coach trying to get order. He knows he should go down there, try and figure out what the problem is. Prove to Ron that he can take a failing team and make it better. He steels himself, leaving his office and marching towards the pitch.

...

The manager is nowhere to be seen, but two people are standing, watching the team as Harry walks towards them. One is the coach, Harry met him last week, having ceased his whistling. The other has blond hair, short at the neck, and flopping forward in front of his eyes. Blond hair that is blonder than blond. Blond hair that Harry knows belongs to one person alive on the planet.

Draco Malfoy turns around when he hears Harry approach, nodding slightly, before turning back to the team. Harry’s heart clenches in what he guesses is anger, but could be panic. Draco Malfoy is here, watching _Harry’s_ team! Why? Why is he here? Why is he watching the team? The coach, a man called Grant who is in his late forties and who apparently knew Harry’s dad, glances at Harry as he arrives.

“Harry,” he says, nodding once. Harry is clearly going to have to learn how to nod hello. “This is Draco Malfoy, our first Seeker.” Harry glares at Draco, feeling sick. Not only has he bought a Quidditch team he doesn’t want, he’s bought a Quidditch team that Draco Fucking Malfoy plays for. He knew, somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, that Draco had gone into professional Quidditch. He’d just never bothered to find out who he played for. 

“And why isn’t our first Seeker on the pitch with the others?” Harry asks, with authority. Draco raises an eyebrow at him. Okay, maybe not authority. Maybe petulance. Draco sticks one leg forward and points at the knee brace that Harry had originally not notice because he was too busy staring at Draco’s hair. He can see the thick pink line of a scar through the hole in the brace. His shorts are tight on this thigh, he has very muscular thighs, and Harry frowns. Grant doesn’t say anything.

“Grant, a word,” he says, walking away from Draco. Grant claps Draco on the shoulder and follows Harry. When Grant arrives next to Harry, he is treated to a Potter glare. “Why wasn’t I told that our first Seeker is Draco Malfoy?” Wait, no. That’s not what he meant. Grant looks at him like he’s gone mad and Harry corrects himself. “I mean, why wasn’t I told that our first Seeker, Draco Malfoy, is injured.” Grant carries on looking at him like he’s crazy.

“Figured you’d find out,” Grant says. Harry growls, rubbing his face.

“Can you just… I need to know about my team. Can you keep me in the loop?” Harry asks and Grant chuckles.

“Sure thing Harry.” He ambles back to Draco, leaning in and saying something that makes Draco laugh. It’s a nice laugh, which makes Harry _very reasonably_ annoyed. He runs his hands through his hair and readjusts his glasses for no reason. This is going to be harder than he thought.

...

“So how were they?” Ron asks at dinner when Harry gets home. Hermione leans on one elbow, looking at him intently. He’d sold 12 Grimmauld Place as soon as he could, and the three of them had bought a nice house in Devon, in a small wizarding village near enough to the Burrow that Molly didn’t complain, but far enough away that she doesn’t visit too often. Harry loves his house. He loves that it isn’t just his. He loves living with his two best friends in the world.

“They’re awful,” Harry groans, shovelling a mouthful of shepherd’s pie in his mouth. He chews as the other two wait for him to continue. “They’re uncoordinated, they don’t talk to each other, half of them either have shit reflexes or brooms that are too slow to respond.” He takes another bite. “And the worst thing is that Draco fucking Malfoy is the first Seeker, although he is injured at the moment. But that means I can’t trade him! Which I would love to do. He’s so fucking arrogant, standing there like he’s the second coach, wearing shorts that are, frankly, too tight. And then he talks to the coach like they’re _friends_, like Draco Malfoy actually has friends who aren’t his little Slytherin gang. Blaise aside. He’s just such a fucking twat, with his hair and his eyes and his stupid fucking knee. ”

Harry finishes his rant and realises that he’s smushed his Shepard’s pie together into one big mess.

“You want to trade him?” Hermione asks, with a little too much interest for his liking. Harry scowls at her, ignoring his plate. He opens his mouth to tell her exactly what he wants to do with Draco Malfoy. 

“Of course Harry won’t trade him. Draco is the best player in the team, and one of the best Seekers in the league. He almost always gets the Snitch, the only reason they keep losing is because the rest of the team is so useless they’re always more than 150 points behind,” Ron says, displaying a worrying knowledge of Draco Malfoy. Harry was definitely tricked into buying the Arrows. Harry turns away from Hermione to tell Ron that they could win even without Draco as a Seeker. They’re going to have to. He’s been off for three months, and he’s likely to be off for at least three more. “Plus,” Ron adds. “If he trades Draco he won’t be able to look at Draco’s arse. And Draco does have a good arse. Objectively speaking.”

Harry doesn’t deign to reply to that ludicrous statement. But he does take the opportunity to flick a pea at Ron.

...

Harry walks into the team lounge, looking for the team. He wants to get to know them. He wants them to see him as part of the team, and not just the team owner. Maybe that way they’ll listen to him. As he pushes the door open Mitchell Kent, their Keeper, holds a finger to his lips and makes a soft ‘shhh’. He’s sitting on one end of a decrepit sofa. Draco is on the sofa next to him, curled up asleep, his leg with the braced knee stretching out and resting on Mitchell’s thigh. On the other sofa Ben Polanski, their Beater, is sitting reading a book. Toby Cox, the reserve Seeker with the lovely bum, has his head in Ben’s lap, his legs dangling over the arm of the sofa.

It’s an adorable scene.

Harry moves into the room and sits in a chair opposite them. Draco is making small snuffling noises. It’s almost cute, except it’s Draco Malfoy.

“How did he hurt his leg anyway?” Harry asks, pretending he wasn’t just thinking of Draco as cute. Ben shuffles and Toby readjusts his head. Mitchell is grinning at them like they have an in-joke that Harry isn’t privy to yet. 

“Ben accidentally hit the Bludger into it,” Mitchell says with glee. From the blush spreading up Ben’s neck, Harry doesn’t think that Mitchell is actually happy that Ben hit Draco, more that they’ve teased him about it a lot. Ben pretends to be reading, but his eyes aren’t moving and Toby’s hair must be in the way of the page.

“He was injured by our own Beater?” Harry asks.

“It was an accident!” Ben is suddenly invested in the conversation. He looks mortified. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m not blaming anyone,” Harry rushes to reassure him. He is though. He’s blaming Ben for injuring potentially their best player. He doesn’t _like_ Draco, but he can admit that Draco is good at Quidditch. He certainly was at school. “So why wasn’t it fixed magically?”

Mitchell shrugs. “Too much damage. He took Skelegrow, and the bone grew into his tendons or something. So they had to fix that, but that meant surgery so they could see what they were doing. Can’t just point a wand at nothing and hope.”

“He takes a potion to help with the healing, but if it’s too strong it’s classed as doping, and we can’t have a doping scandal as well as a losing streak,” Toby says, looks glum. Harry agrees. A doping scandal would not be good. The clock on the wall chimes and Harry looks over at it. There are a plethora of hands, each with a team member face on. They’ve moved from ‘personal time’ to ‘training’. Draco’s hand is pointing at ‘physio’. 

“We better go,” Mitchell says. “Draco…”

The other two start calling Draco’s name and Harry feels an almost strange compulsion to join them. Because he wants his best player to go to his physio, not because he wants to call Draco’s name softly. 

When Draco doesn’t wake up, Mitchell pokes him gently. Harry almost doesn’t want to be here for when Draco wakes up. It feels intimate, like it’s something he didn’t earn. He hasn’t been on the team for long enough. His only interactions with Draco since they were at school has been the occasional stilted conversation about Blaise and Ginny. Draco wakes, blinking and stretching. He grins at Mitchell, slapping him on the arm a couple of times.

“Time for work?” he asks, and Mitchell laughs. Toby has untangled himself from Ben, and Ben is putting his book down on the coffee table next to him. They start to stand up, unenthusiastically heading to training. Draco gives one last stretch and stands up with them. And then Harry can’t breathe.

Draco Malfoy has a boner.

A big one.

“Alright Draco, physio that exciting?” Mitchell laughs. Draco looks down, readjusting his T-shirt before giving Mitchell and friendly punch on the arm. They’re all laughing. Harry can’t laugh. Can’t think. Draco has a boner. And it’s impressive. Harry wants to move, but he’s frozen in place.

“He’s just looking forward to having Alex’s hands all over him,” Toby chips in. Draco laughs that annoyingly nice laugh. And Harry wants to join in. Draco hasn’t looked at him yet and he wants Draco to. He wants to be noticed.

“I think he’d probably prefer yours, Toby,” Ben says and this time Harry joins in the laughter. Draco’s eyes snap to him and he stops.

“It’s just biology,” Draco snaps, turning and leaving the room. The other three look after him, frowning in confusion and Harry feels like he wants to escape. It had been going so well. Mitchell looks at him, sadly.

“I don’t know if he likes you,” he says. No. Harry is pretty sure he doesn’t.

...

“I hear your manager is quitting,” Ron says as they watch the Falcons completely annihilate the Arrows. They’re faster, more organised, and are constantly shouting to each other. Communicating. Also, and Harry thinks this is a very important point, their Beater can aim. He watches as Ben swings his bat, knocking a Bludger away from Anna Colt, their Chaser, and right towards Charlie Smith, their other Chaser. Charlie scowls at him, flinging her hand up in a ‘wanker’ gesture before streaking off to chase the Quaffle.

“Yeah, he decided he didn’t want to actually do any work, so now I have no manager, a coach who is so relaxed he may as well be asleep, and a first Seeker who is injured,” Harry grumbles. Draco is sitting two metres away from them, scribbling notes onto a piece of parchment as he watches. He’s been ignoring Harry ever since the erection incident, and Harry is annoyed about it. Because it’s a childish thing to ignore Harry about. Not because he’s been having dreams about Draco fucking him, reminding him that he has no sex life and also that Draco is very attractive. That is definitely not why he’s annoyed. Harry rubs his hands together. He should probably be taking notes, but he’s pretty sure he’ll remember that Ben needs to work on his aim. Grant isn’t here. Apparently, Grant doesn’t go to away games because he has to be at home with the grandkids.

“So, you looking for a new manager?” Ron asks.

“I guess so.” Harry shrugs. The Falcons score. The crowd’s enthusiastic shouts seem less enthusiastic. Even if Toby managed to catch the Snitch three times, they wouldn’t win.

“You know Ginny is thinking of taking a hiatus.”

“Why?” Harry says, scowling. Ron shrugs. Harry runs his hand through his hair, adjusting his glasses. Ginny is taking a hiatus. She’ll probably be bored, not being involved in Quidditch. She might like something to do. The Falcons supporters start to shout as their Seeker zooms after the Snitch. Her fingers are closing around it before Toby even has a chance to react.

...

Harry walks onto the pitch, knowing exactly what he needs to do. He has a list of things, and he’s going to work his way down them. Draco is watching the team again, his head bent towards Grant’s as they talk. Harry should start arriving at the pitch earlier. Grant is nodding his head. Harry is confident that whatever Draco is saying is wrong. He’s wearing different shorts today, ones that hug his bum a little more, and Harry can’t help but notice that it’s just as nice as Toby’s. Maybe it’s a Seeker thing. The knee brace is thick and jarring against Draco’s fair skin.

Harry stops looking at Draco’s legs.

“Harry! Draco’s had a great idea about Toby’s reactions,” Grant says as he reaches them. Harry scoffs. What does Draco know about helping someone with their reactions? Draco’s reactions have been amazing since they were eleven. And anyway, Toby’s reactions are fourth on the list. No. Today they need to work on their Beaters before any more of their players get injured.

“I think we need to work on the Beaters,” Harry says firmly. “We don’t want any more…” He gestures to Draco. Draco raises an eyebrow but shrugs elegantly. Grant looks between them and then turns to the team who are messing around on their brooms, pushing each other off and trying to speed faster than each other on brooms that are at least three seasons old.

“We’re going to do Beater drills today. Ben, Lucy, can you suit up. Everyone else in protective gear,” Grant shouts. The team groan, landing on the ground and meandering over to the equipment shed. Grant turns to look back to Harry

“I noticed at the game last week that Ben’s aim is awful. I mean, look at Draco’s leg.” Harry points at Draco. Draco has his arms crossed over his chest, his eyebrow still raised. He looks pissed off. Harry tries not to feel upset. Draco is always pissed off. It probably isn’t about him. He looks strong, even with his knee, and Harry tries not to remember the dreams.

Draco coughs. “His aim is alright, it’s his broom. It’s old, and when he swings to put his weight behind the hit the broom wobbles and he has to readjust. If we had some money, he could get a new broom that would be more stable—”

“His broom is fine,” Harry interrupts.

“It’s eighteen years old!” Draco says, moving a step closer to Harry. Harry turns to him. He’s not backing down from an argument, especially not with Draco Malfoy.

“And it works just fine.”

“Like you’d know! When was the last time you flew?”

“I fly plenty!”

“On a broom that is brand new, no doubt” Draco is right in Harry’s face now, only an inch taller, their noses nearly brushing. Harry can feel him. He’s very warm. He seems to notice how close he is to Harry and takes a step back, scowling. Harry coughs, and looks down at the paper he forgot was in his hand.

“I drew up some drills,” he says, moving on from the argument. Draco growls, and Harry resolutely pretends that he didn’t hear him. His stomach twists uncomfortably, and he puts aside his worries about Draco as he tells Grant what they should do.

...

Harry is sat in the away box at the Harpies stadium. The Harpies are winning 270-10. Ron has managed to convince Harry to let him sit in the team box, so he can be closer to Ginny. She’s flying well, head up, shoulders set, thighs tight on the broom. Harry had spoken to her in the week, and she’s agreed to come on as his manager once the season is over. She’ll be a great manager. She’s a great player. But she’s not who he’s here to see.

“Ben is doing well. He hasn’t nearly hit anyone on your team,” Ron notices. Harry grits his teeth. They’d worked so hard on the drills, and Ben hadn’t improved. Not substantially. No, it’s not the drills that have helped Ben, who is objectively a very good player. Harry scowls at the new broom that Ben is sitting on, keeping him stable and making it easier for him to swing at the Bludger. It comes flying towards Lucy who swings, hitting the ball and sending it towards Ben, who hit it directly at Ginny. She swerves, but it’s undeniably a good hit from Ben.

“I bought him a new broom,” Draco says next to them. He’s started talking to Harry again, but mainly to make pointed remarks like that one. Sometimes Harry catches him staring at Harry, but Harry doesn’t know why and it’s disconcerting. Draco is sitting close, the box isn’t that big, and he can hear every word they say. Which is the only reason that Harry feels uncomfortable, and has nothing to do with the fact that Draco is in tight shorts and a shirt with the top three buttons undone. He’s warm again, and his knee brace keeps brushing against Harry’s knee, and Harry can’t help thinking that if there was no brace, he would be touching Draco Malfoy. He glances over and sees Draco looking smug. It would be much easier to appreciate his good looks if he wasn’t such an arse. He turns to Ron and rolls his eyes.

They watch in silence. The Harpies score five more goals, easily slipping past the Arrows non-existent defensive line. Their Chasers are everywhere, not talking to each other, not grabbing stray balls. A Harpies Chaser passes the ball over the head of Charlie, and she doesn’t rise to intercept. Harry wants to cry. Their third Chaser, Paul Rodrigez, flies after Ginny and Harry covers his eyes. Paul can’t outfly Ginny, and even if he could, she’ll pass before he can even get to her. They have no strategy, they have no drive, and they have no clue. 

The crowd starts to shout, and Harry looks up to see the Harpies Seeker streaking after the Snitch. Toby is on her heels, reacting as she reacts.

“Toby seems better,” Ron says. Toby does seem better. He seems like he’s had some extra coaching. Harry turns to scowl at Draco.

“I worked with him,” Draco says, shrugging.

“Why?” Harry demands. He was going to work on Toby’s reactions, and then Draco did, and now Toby is doing much better and Harry is trying not to be annoyed. He got the result he wanted, but now Draco is going to think that Harry was wrong. But Harry wasn’t wrong. Draco is just an arse who thinks he knows better than Harry. But he doesn’t.

“I thought he could do with some help. Don’t worry, it was in downtime,” Draco says, looking abashed. Harry grits his teeth, running his fingers through his hair and adjusting his glasses. In front of him, Toby gets the snitch.

...

Harry is sitting in his office, pouring over a book, which he acknowledges is unusual. But he’s been talking to Hermione and she’s suggested that gaining knowledge is always good. Suggested is a mild word for what she actually did. He’s reading _Beating the Bludgers - A Study of Defensive Strategies in Quidditch_ and he’s definitely got some ideas. He’s made notes of the best manoeuvres. Just like he used to when he was captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Thirteen years ago. Things don’t change that much. There’s a knock on the door and he looks up to find Grant grinning at him.

“You wanted a strategy meeting?” Grant asks, and Harry closes the book.

“Sure, in you come,” he points at a chair. Grant moves into the room, and Draco comes in after him. “Oh… and Draco. Of course.” _Of course_.

He doesn’t want to look at Draco. He’s probably wearing inappropriate shorts again. So instead he looks at his notes.

“So I’ve been looking into how we can improve our defensive line.” Harry doesn’t wait for them to sit down before he starts talking. He’s excited. He loves Quidditch strategy. It was his favourite part of being captain back at school. “There’s a move in here.” Harry pats the book. He assumes the others are listening. “We pull the Seeker, add in an extra Chaser. Then they can create a diamond structure like this.” Harry draws a quick sketch of the pitch on a piece of paper and draws a diamond over it. “Obviously we don’t have another Chaser, but we could get Toby down as long as he doesn’t actually touch the Quaffle.” He looks happily at his strategy drawing. It could really work. Having Toby in the diamond would just add another body to the formation and make it harder for the opposition to break through the line.

Draco frowns, “Harry—”

“There’s also this manoeuvre, where the Chasers form a line like this,” Harry doesn’t hear Grant, drawing on the paper again. It was a manoeuvre he learnt at Hogwarts, and it had worked well against Ravenclaw. Grant grins and Harry takes it as encouragement. Grant told Harry that it’s nice to have an owner so invested in the team, and he’s getting to the age where he’d rather be retiring. Apparently, his partner wants to move to the seaside. “And then wave, which will throw off the next team,” Harry continues. He loves this move. Grant probably knows it. He’s a good coach, but he isn’t great at strategy. Harry can help with that.

Draco leans forward, “Harry.”

“And then, finally, we can do this one,” Harry carries on, drawing on his piece of paper. “We place the Chasers above and below the goals, circling, and then as the opposing team come forward, the player starts to circle that member.”

“Harry, I don’t think we need to go this complicated,” Draco cuts in, louder than he had been before. Grant is leaning back in his chair, looking between the two of them with interest. Harry tries to ignore the look and turns to look at Draco, leaning his elbow on his desk and resting his chin on his hand. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. We just need to move our players around,” Draco says, leaning forward. “Look, Charlie doesn’t have great reflexes on the broom, but she’s good at speeding forward once she’s got the Quaffle, Anna is good at catching the Quaffle, but her agility isn’t great, and Paul is quick and agile but needs to be given the ball. I think we move Charlie from the centre and swap her out with Anna…” Harry holds up his hand, trying to stop Draco in his track. Move Charlie! Charlie is the centre back. She’s always been there. She _knows_ that position. 

“Draco, do you _really_ think just moving people will help?” Harry asks, knowing it definitely won’t. It probably won’t. It might, a small voice in the back of his mind tells him, but Draco has suggested it and so he’s not going to listen.

“Put Paul in the front, near their goal, and Charlie can be in the wings. Have one of the Beaters covering Charlie,” Draco carries on. Harry’s chest itches with annoyance. Why can’t Draco just listen? Why does he always have to argue against Harry?

“Draco, this is ridiculous! If they could do it they would have done it by now!” Harry shouts and Draco leans closer, practically hovering over the desk. Harry is vaguely aware he is also standing up. Their faces are very close together, again. He can see a small freckle on Draco’s lip. He has a sudden urge to lick it. He shakes his head at the ridiculousness of it and stands up straight, putting distance between him and Draco.

“Just listen. Let Lucy cover Charlie because she is quicker and tends to just swing. Ben has better aim, so if you place him at the back with Anna he’ll be able to get the Bludgers onto the other side of the pitch.” Draco points at Harry’s paper. Draco’s eyes are piercing as they look into Harry. “You know I’m right.”

Frustration bursts in Harry’s chest. “Draco! It’s not happening. They just aren’t good enough. We’re going to go with these strategies. Right, Grant?” He turns to look at Grant, who is eyeing them with something that Harry isn’t entirely sure he likes.

“Sure…” Grant draws the word out, and before he can say anything else, Harry claps his hands together, sitting back in his chair.

“Great!” he says, with more enthusiasm than he feels. Draco glares at him.

“Great,” Draco snaps, before turning and leaving the room. Harry sighs, turning to Grant for some solidarity, but instead finding an interested look.

...

The Kenmare Kestrels are too good. The diamond formation didn’t work, the waves didn’t work, and the Kestrels are too fast and too good to circle. Harry glares at the team. The defensive strategies should work. They worked at school, and Quidditch is Quidditch. Katie Bell, who is playing for the Kestrels (traitor), speeds past Paul and Anna, chucking the ball at the hoop. Charlie realises a second too late and misses the ball, obstructing Mitchell’s view and the ball flies through the hoop.

Harry runs his hands through his hair, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. Charlie just isn’t quick enough to intercept the ball before it reaches the goal. He needs someone with good reflexes to be centre back. Then Katie goes to throw the Quaffle to another Chaser and Anna speeds between them, grabbing the Quaffle and chucking it towards Paul, their only open Chaser. Paul fumbles with the Quaffle and, as it drops from his hands, Katie grabs it and continues towards the Arrow goals. Ignoring the horrible decision to pass the ball to Paul, Anna did well. She’s clearly got good reflexes. The Katie speeds past Charlie and Mitchell flies to save the goal before the ball goes through the loop.

“You know, if Charlie wasn’t there, Mitchell might be able to save more goals,” Ron says. Harry isn’t sure why he keeps bringing Ron.

“You know, if you wanted to coach them, you could have bought the team,” Harry says, scowling at Ron. Ron laughs, thumping him on the back.

“Firstly, I would never betray the Cannons like that. And secondly, I have a job mate. A bloody good one. _You_ were sitting on your arse doing nothing and winding Hermione up. This is good for you.” Ron leans back in his chair, satisfied. Harry glances over at Draco to see if he’s heard. The slight smile on his lips suggests he has. Harry doesn’t want to think about why it makes him so uncomfortable that Draco knows he wasn’t doing anything with his life before the Arrows.

Katie throws the ball past Charlie again, and Harry runs his hand through his hair, before adjusting his glasses. He signals to the ref, calling for a time out. The team come flying towards him, looking grateful and tired. As they enter the team box, Draco gives each of them a pat on the back. They smile at him. He’s part of the team in a way that makes Harry annoyed. What has Draco given them that Harry isn’t? Ron gives him a nudge and he clears his throat, running a hand through his hair and pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Okay, I know it feels bad right now, but you’re doing great,” Harry starts. He looks down at his clipboard where he’s been making notes at Ron’s encouragement. He grits his teeth, hating himself for what he’s about to say. “I just want us to try a few changes. Charlie, can you and Anna switch places. So, Anna, you’ll be centre back, and Charlie you’ll be on the wings. And can I have Ben at the back with Anna, pushing the Bludgers to the other end of the pitch.” He can’t even look at Draco. The others make noises of encouragement, and the ref calls for the end of the time-out. The team members file onto the pitch, kicking off into the air.

Draco sits down, looking pleased. He looks hot with the small smirk and the twinkle in his ice-blue eyes. Harry is frustrated that he thinks so.

...

The Kestrels were good. Really good. Harry has been thinking about it all week. The Kestrels were good, but not beyond anything that the Arrows could be. Maybe a little more polished. A little more _practiced_. There were definitely manoeuvres that the Arrows can do, and if Harry can find the money to put them all on new brooms then it’ll help. It clearly did with Ben. And he can look at the successful teams in the league, see what they do. Clearly, he doesn’t remember as much as he thought about being a Quidditch captain.

Twenty minutes later Draco knocks on his door, making him jump. He’s reading his old battered copy of _Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland_ and making cursory notes. Apparently, the Falcons train six days a week, which would explain why they’re so good. Ginny trains four. The Arrows train three. Most of their players need to have other jobs to subsidise. The Arrows can’t exactly pay them well.

He gives Draco a tight-lipped smile and Draco comes into the room. He doesn’t sit down, instead swinging on the balls of his feet, his hands behind his back. He looks like he wants to say something. Harry stares at him. He’s hot. Tall, slender, with strong thighs and a sharp jaw. It annoys Harry less than it has. He doesn’t want to think Draco is hot, but it’s undeniable. His eyes meet Draco’s and there’s something in them that Harry doesn’t want to explore.

“Did you want something?” he asks, mainly to stop Draco from staring at him. Draco jumps a little, before nodding.

“Yeah, I just wanted to say thanks,” Draco replies. Harry scowls at him. Draco Malfoy is thanking him. Draco coughs before continuing, “for, y’know, listening to my advice.” They look at each other and for a moment. The air shifts around them, and Harry suddenly can’t breathe. His hairs stand on end, his palms get clammy, his mouth dry. Draco really is very hot.

Draco moves, and Harry is shocked from his stupor.

“Uh, it’s fine,” he mumbles. Draco doesn’t leave. Harry’s fingers fiddle with the pages of his book. He wants to carry on looking into teams. He doesn’t want Draco to be standing there, looking good. He wants to be helping to make his team better.

“What are you reading?” Draco asks. Harry looks down at the book. Draco carries on standing in front of him. He looks interested in what Harry is doing and Harry can’t figure out why. Probably for nefarious reasons.

“Oh… I’m looking into different teams. I think if we can emulate some of their winning moves, then we might have a chance of beating them,” Harry says because he can’t think of a lie good enough. Besides, it’s Draco’s team too. 

“You want to copy other teams?” Draco asks, looking dubious.

“Not in so many words, but yes.” Harry shrugs. Copying seems wrong. He’s not copying. He’s just… doing what seems to be effective. Draco moves closer to the desk, one eyebrow raised.

“Look, it’s important to think about each team, but not to copy what they’re doing. We should look at how they work and develop our game to counter that,” he says and Harry’s chest pounds. Draco is disagreeing with him, telling him off like he’s a child! He isn’t a child and he knows what he’s doing.

“That’s what I’m doing! If we can emulate what they’re are doing then we can beat them,” Harry says, standing up and enunciating every word. Draco is doing it again. Arguing. Always arguing. Harry is sick of it. He just wants Draco to listen to him. He just wants Draco to think that he’s right. He just wants Draco. The thought arrived unbidden in his mind and if makes his whole body shake with anger and shock. He can’t want Draco. He can’t.

“You’re not listening to me! Copying another team is not going to make the team work together any better than they have been. They’re scared of talking to each other, just get them talking to each other!” Draco shouts, banging his hands down on Harry’s desk. Harry growls, and before he can think of what he’s doing, sideswipes everything off his desk. Papers fall everywhere and an oil lamp smashes on the floor. Him and Draco stand, glaring at each other, panting.

“I know what I am doing, Malfoy. And I don’t need to listen to you. You need to listen to me,” Harry spits.

“You are not the chosen one here, Potter. You’re just Harry. Harry the owner who doesn’t fucking listen,” Draco snarls, turning and stalking from the room.

...

Harry is very embarrassed. He pushed all his stuff off his table. He lost control. He got angry.

And to top it all off, he clearly has some sort of masochistic attraction to Draco.

They’re sitting in the away team booth at the match against Puddlemere. Oliver Wood is flying, and Harry can’t help but think he’s grown more handsome than he was at school. Handsome, but still not eliciting the same response that he had arguing with Draco. It’s unacceptable.

The other unacceptable thing is that his tactics aren’t working. They’ve been training extra hard this week, working to a schedule that the Magpies play to, taking techniques from the best teams in the league. And Puddlemere is still beating them. Not as badly as the other teams have, the new positioning is working well for them and Harry managed to find budget to kit them all out with new brooms, but it still isn’t enough. Harry watches as Charlie speeds past Paul, holding her hand out to give him the ball. He’s looking the wrong way, and it drops to the floor. The Puddlemere Chaser catches it before it lands, giving a shout and throwing it up to another Chaser. If Charlie had said something, Paul might have managed to get the ball. Mitchell saves and Harry feels a little pleased.

The problem is they need to talk to each other. Harry has always known that, but something about Draco suggesting it makes Harry not want to do it. He doesn’t want to tell his players to communicate, to not be afraid to tell each other where they are, or what they’re about to do. He wants them to figure it out on his own so that he doesn’t have to admit to Draco fucking Malfoy that he was right and Harry was wrong.

The whistle for half time goes and the team flies to their box, looking exhausted, and moaning at each other. Draco pointedly doesn’t look at him, and Harry takes a deep breath. This is going to be awful.

“Hey, everyone, listen up,” he says. Draco scowls at the floor but still doesn’t look at him. Draco never fucking looks at him. The rest of the team are waiting. “You’re doing great, Mitchell, good saving, and Charlie and Paul and Anna, much better in your positions. Toby, you’re doing awesome, just keep circling. Lucy and Ben, really lovely hitting. It’s all good.” He takes a deep breath. “Except, you guys aren’t talking to each other. You need to be constantly talking, telling each other where you are, what you’re planning on doing. None of you are mind readers unless you’re all Legilimens without telling me.” The team chuckle softly, and Harry continues. “Just. Communicate. Even if it’s with a hand gesture. Give it a go.”

The whistle blows and the team file out of the box, giving Draco a pat and a smile as they do so. Harry looks at Draco for some sign of something, anything. His heart does something weird when Draco glances at him, a soft smile at the corner of his lips.

...

He’s sitting at his kitchen table with Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, drinking tea and bitching about Draco. Well, he’s bitching. They’re all being annoyingly nice about him. Ginny has brought a cake around that apparently Blaise made, and Harry is on his third piece. He loves cake. He especially loves cake when he’s feeling shit and needs something to make himself feel better.

“And another thing!” He says around a mouthful. He pushed his glasses up with the back of his hand and shakes his hair out of his eyes. “If I don’t do something he wants me to do, I get an earful, but the second I actually do something _he_ wanted he ignores me completely! He’s such a fucking child!” He finished the cake, licking his fingers. “Please, tell me you know what I mean! He’s acting like I don’t know anything about Quidditch!”

“Listen to me,” Ginny snaps, leaning forward, her hand tight on his wrist. “You are being ridiculous. You are not acting as part of the team. You are good at Quidditch and good at leading a team. What’s actually happening here is that you are saying no to anything Draco suggests. Which is wrong.”

“I’m not!” Harry shouts. He isn’t! Draco isn’t listening to _him_. If Draco just listened, then they could be on the same side, but they aren’t, just like always. Ron coughs and Harry looks over at him, wide-eyed.

“Harry, mate. Come on. You refused to buy Ben a new broom even though he was on an old Nimbus 2000, you wouldn’t work with Toby, and you grumbled about moving Anna to the centre, all of which are sensible ideas you would have thought of if Draco hadn’t suggested them,” Ron says. Harry’s about to protest, but Ron stares at him and Harry finds he can’t. Ben had worked better on the broom, to the point that Harry bought new brooms for them all. And he had wanted to work with Toby until Draco mentioned it. And moving Anna made sense. Maybe if Grant had suggested it, Harry would have just done it. Ginny and Ron are right. He needs to stop thinking of himself as against Draco, and start just enjoying Quidditch. 

Harry leans back in his chair, deflated, and Hermione cuts him another slice of cake. He picks at it, whilst the others look at him and wait.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he mumbles. “He just gets under my skin, y’know?”

“We know, Harry,” Hermione says.

“He always has.” Ginny smiles at him, a very knowing smile. “ Maybe there’s something more there?” Harry frowns at his plate and eats more cake. Maybe there is. Draco is very hot, and Harry clearly has a lot of _passion_ when he’s near him. Maybe that’s something else Harry has missed. Or been too stubborn to acknowledge. He groans, running a cakey hand through his hair. 

“Maybe,” he admits. And then shoves the thought away, to deal with another time. He needs to think about Quidditch now. About his team. He sits up straighter. “I know exactly what I need to do. We need new players. Not to replace ours, but we need subs.” He pauses, looking at his best friends. “You know, the team could do with sponsors.”

“Mate, I’m not sponsoring a team that isn’t the Cannons,” Ron says, shaking his head and taking a swig of tea. Harry looks at the others, his eyes wide and pleading. If the team had the backing of him and one of them, the three successful war heroes, they’d have enough funding for a whole team of reserves.

“I’ll do it,” Hermione sighs and Ron splutters. “Oh calm down, I can support two teams.” Harry grins, taking a victory bite of cake.

“Thanks. Okay, so first I’ll go and have a look at who is up for trade—”

Hermione stops him in his tracks, with a firm hand on the table. “No. First, you go and apologise to Draco.”

Right. Apologise to Draco.

...

Harry can’t find Draco on the pitch although he’s been reliably informed that Draco is in the stadium somewhere. He’s checked the lounge, the changing rooms, the gym. Nowhere. As he walks around people call and wave to him. He feels at home here. Safe. His stomach curls pleasantly at the realisation. He fits here. He has a purpose.

He turns away from the pitch, heading towards the equipment store. Might as well check everywhere. As he turns the corner he stops, not sure where to look. Draco is on his back, underneath a long, thin piece of wood that is being held up by a stand. His shorts are ripped, showing off a flash of thigh, and he’s wearing a sinfully tight white t-shirt. From where Harry is standing, he can’t see much else, except the blond hair around Draco’s face. Harry is pretty sure he’s seen this porno. He coughs, rearranging himself, hand through his hair, fixing his glasses.

“Hey,” he says as he walks closer. Draco glances up at him but carries on pointing his wand at the broom. His muscles flex as he twists his arm, clearly working hard with whatever spell he’s working on. There’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek and on his forearm. Harry shuffles uncomfortably.

Draco finally finishes the spell and stands up, wiping his hands on his t-shirt. They leave a dirty smear along his abs.

“Hi,” he says, smiling at Harry. His hair falls into his eye and he flicks it away. The smudge makes his cheekbone more pronounced. He’s closer to Harry than Harry had thought he would be, once stood up, and Harry can see that freckle again. Draco’s smile is slowly growing, showing very straight white teeth, and Harry forgets why he was looking for Draco.

“What are you doing?” Harry points at the stick, which he now assumes is a broom. There’s a table next to it covered in very straight, very shiny sticks. Harry assumes that’s where the oil mark on Draco’s cheek came from. Draco gives him one last look of amusement before wandering over to the table and picking one of the sticks up.

“Broom maintenance. I like to keep busy, helpful. And we can’t really afford a maintenance crew.” He puts the stick down, shrugging, and moving over to the broom handle. He has long fingers, and as they run along the handle Harry can feel his jeans getting uncomfortably tight. He’s sure Draco is doing it on purpose because there seems to be no real reason that he would need to be rubbing the stick slowly up and down. 

“Brooms need maintenance?” Harry asks, his voice cracking slightly. He moves away from Draco and thinks about his poor broom, chucked in the corner of his conservatory, completely abandoned. Draco watches him, his eyes shining. Harry doesn’t know if he prefers this or arguing. At least with arguing, he doesn’t feel wrong-footed. Maybe he should say something Draco disagrees with. Except he’s promised Hermione that he won’t pick fights with Draco anymore. Fuck, he needs to apologise. He feels nervous, his stomach swirling. He’s never apologised to Draco before.

“Do you know why we use wands?” Draco asks, suddenly. Harry tries to think. He’s never really considered what his wand is for, and this isn’t where he needs to conversation to go.

“Um… for magic?”

“Well, yeah. But the wands in themselves can’t make the magic. They’re like… conduits for the magic,” Draco says, moving closer to Harry. He gestures as he talks, something Harry has never noticed before, but now can’t seem to stop watching. Harry nods. He can’t say anything, his mouth is dry. Draco smiles before continuing. “Well, brooms are the same. They are a tool through which to focus your magic. And like wands they have cores. Except they have other stuff too, like the bristles for stability and the curve of the stick for aerodynamics. That’s why you can’t just fly any old stick.”

Harry nods again. “And they break?”

“Constantly!” Draco throws his hands up in the air and Harry wants to catch one of them and hold it. It’s an absurd thought, especially as what he needs to be doing is apologising. “We use them in much stranger ways than wands, sitting on them, tugging them, forcing them to move through the air in weird ways in all weather. Hitting them with Bludgers.” Draco gives Harry a soft smirk, raising an eyebrow, and Harry’s heart aches. Draco is joking with him. 

“When our knees aren’t in the way,” Harry says, moving closer to Draco, pretending to be looking at the broom. He touches the wood and feels it smooth under his hand. Draco has clearly been waxing it, running his hands over it. “So what are you doing?”

“Oiling the bristles, reattaching them so that they flow, straightening the core. All brooms have feather cores, usually from hippogriffs,” Draco says, coming to stand next to Harry, so close their shoulders touch. Harry grins at him, and Draco rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his lips.

“Hippogriff, huh?” he says. Draco’s eyes flick down to Harry’s lips and Harry can feel his breath filling his chest, his heart pounding.

“Hmm,” Draco says. They look at each other for a moment, and Harry can feel himself leaning in. Draco coughs. “Did you need me for something?” Harry takes a minute. He can think of lots of things he needs Draco for. He takes a deep breath, taking a step back and running his hand through his hair. He adjusted his glasses and forces himself to look Draco in the eye.

“No, I uh… I just wanted to come and say sorry. For, uh, not listening and… I’m sorry...” he trails off, not sure what else he has to say. Draco’s eyes flit over his face and Harry holds his breath. And then he shrugs and Harry feels like he’s flying.

“It’s alright,” Draco murmurs. He moves to the bristles, picking up each individual stick and holding them close to his eye. “Wanna stay and help me?”

Harry huffs a laugh, running his hand through his hair, again. “Yeah, that would be good.”

...

Harry looks at the pile of player profiles on his desk. Players ready to be bought or traded. There are about fifty of them. But before he can look at any of them, he needs to clear it with his team. He should have been clearing all his decision with his team. Damn Ginny and her logic. There’s a knock on his doorframe, and he smiles as Draco walks in, with Grant following him.

“Hi,” Draco says, grinning at Harry. The swirling in Harry’s stomach isn’t entirely unpleasant. 

“Hey.” Harry stares at Draco for a moment. He’s wearing shorts again, baggy this time, and short enough that he can wear the brace. He really has fantastic legs. Draco is looking at him like he’s amused, a faint blush on his cheeks. Grant coughs behind Draco and Harry starts. “Sorry.” 

“So what’s up?” Grant says, flopping into one of the chairs. Harry tries not to watch Draco sit in his chair, graceful in only the way he can be. Even with a fucking knee brace, Draco manages to look aristocratic. Draco shifts his chair a little, looking like he’s getting comfortable.

“I’ve been looking at our roster. Apart from Toby, we have no reserves. Our team are tired and injured because we don’t have enough players to sub them,” Harry says once Draco is settled, looking between the two men. He wants this to be a team decision. He’s been so determined to make the team good that he’s forgotten about being part of it, as Ginny so helpfully pointed out. Grant frowns, which is the most confused Harry has even seen him.

“We can’t afford to pay players who aren’t playing,” he says. Harry can feel heat flooding his cheeks. He didn’t want to just come in and use his money to make the team better, he can’t really afford to, but they need the funding. They need new players so that when the team are tired or hurt they can sit down for five minutes.

“Well. We can now,” Harry says, gritting his teeth in determination. He is not going to let his team fail.

“How?” Draco asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Harry can feel Draco’s foot against his own and it’s both distracting and grounding.

“Don’t worry too much about it.” He shrugs. He doesn’t want to meet Draco’s eyes, because he knows that the second he does, Draco will know. Draco has been watching him since he was eleven years old, and Harry’s tells haven’t changed that much in the eighteen years since. He knows that. So instead he looks at Grant.

“You’re putting your own money into it?” Grant asks, his frown deepening. Buying or loaning new players is expensive, and Harry is suggesting buying seven. No wonder Grant is worried.

“No! Not entirely. I found us some backers and then went to the bank,” Harry shakes his head. “I said don’t worry about it.”

“Harry…” Draco’s voice is low, rumbling, his foot pressing harder against Harry’s. Harry coughs, pressing back, and smiling at them both. He pats the pile of play profiles. He can explain about the money later. Right now, he needs a new team, and he needs his coach and his, uh, Draco to help choose them. 

“I want to buy or loan some new players. I have a selection here, do you want to look at them? Maybe take a third each and we’ll meet tomorrow and go over what we think? I haven’t added anyone to this selection that we can’t afford,” he says, attempting to reassure them. Draco is watching him, ice blue eyes trained on Harry’s face. Grant is also watching him, but his frown has gone and he seems somewhat pleased.

“Sounds good to me,” Grant says, finally, slapping his knees and standing up, holding his hand out. Harry gives him a small stack of the profiles and Grant waves before heading out of the room. The door clicks shut and Draco leans forward. His foot brushes against Harry’s, but Harry can’t focus on it because Draco is looking at him with so much intensity that Harry feels dizzy.

“Harry, I don’t know what you’ve said to get Ron to give money to the Arrows—”

“He isn’t!” Harry jumps in. Draco watches him for a long moment.

“Hermione,” he says finally and Harry can’t deny it, because it’s true. Draco sighs, biting his lip. He glances at the pile. “Wanna go over these together?”

Harry brightens, ignoring the heat travelling up his neck and onto his cheeks. Draco’s foot is still pressed against his, and he still feels light-headed. “Yeah, that would be great. Want to come to mine? Ron is cooking tonight.”

“Sounds good,” Draco says, smiling before standing and leaving the room.

...

It’s late, Ron and Hermione have both gone to bed, and Draco is lying on the floor holding files above his head. Ron had made spaghetti bolognese, and then had declared himself ready to sleep, and has dragged Hermione to bed. Harry suspects that Ron isn’t tired at all. Harry tucks his feet under his bum, sipping on a beer as he reads over the player profile for Julia Creevey, the youngest of the Creevey siblings. 

“What about Oliver Wood’s sister?” Draco asks, handing the player file to Harry. Harry puts aside Julia’s file and reaches for the one Draco is handing him. Their fingers brush, and Harry pretends it wasn’t intentional.

“She’d be our oldest player,” he says. Not that that would be a bad thing. Just that it’s something to consider. She may be thinking of retiring in a few years, or she may feel left out surrounded by a bunch of twenty-year-olds.

“It would be good to get some experience in,” Draco points out. It’s true. The current players are all so young, kids just out of Hogwarts. They’re friends with each other, but they don’t really know what it means to be part of a team. There’s as much rivalry between each other as there is between other teams in the league. An older player might manage to stamp that out. Harry looks over at Draco. At twenty-nine, he’s definitely a little older than the rest of the team. And Harry is pretty sure that when they left Hogwarts after the weird eighth year they had to do that Draco had joined the Falcons. 

“How did you end up playing for them?” Harry asks, glancing at Helena Wood’s profile. She’s a good player. He looks back over to Draco. He’s rolled over onto his side, watching Harry. He shrugs, looking elegant and relaxed.

“I used to play for the Falcons, but then they got bought out by someone who used to know my dad. He didn’t want me around, I didn’t want to be around him, and the Arrows were the first ones to come asking,” he says, matter-of-factly. That makes sense. Harry nods, looking down at the file. Draco couldn’t stay and work somewhere with an owner he didn’t like. 

“Will you stay with us?” Harry asks, not sure what he’s really asking. Draco stands up, coming to sit on the sofa next to Harry. He’s very close and smells very good. He looks Harry in the eye, very seriously.

“I will stay with the Arrows for as long as you are the owner.”

Draco is warm next to him, his thigh strong and hard next to Harry’s. It’s very distracting. That’s the only reason Harry can think for running his hand along Draco’s thigh. He’s distracted. Draco’s breath hitches and Harry looks at him, suddenly realising what he’s doing. He draws his hand back like he’s touched something hot. After a moment, Draco leans towards him, running his hand along Harry’s arm. Harry’s head swims.

“I want to kiss you,” he finds himself saying. He doesn’t know why. It’s the truth, he wants to feel Draco’s lips on his. He just doesn’t know why he said it out loud. Draco laughs, a breathy nothing of a laugh, his eyes on Harry’s lips.

“So kiss me,” he breathes and Harry leans forward. Draco’s lips are soft against his, and hot in a way that Harry knew they would be. Draco’s hands slip into Harry’s hair and he tugs a little, making Harry’s mouth open. Draco’s tongue rubs against his, their legs bumping together and Harry tries to turn towards Draco.

Harry’s hands cling to the fabric at Draco’s waist, and he pulls him closer, avoiding Draco’s knee. His glasses are steaming up, and his breathing is ragged, and his cock is fucking _hard_. Draco is moving to lie down, bringing Harry with him, his cock hard against Harry’s hip. Harry can’t think straight. They’re kissing. In his living room. He’s kissing Draco Malfoy. In his living room. On his sofa. Draco’s hands are in his hair, on his back, on his bum. Draco’s cock is hard next to his. He’s kissing Draco. In his living room. _Wait_.

“Should we, um, go upstairs?” Harry breathes against Draco’s lips. He feels Draco smile and before he can resume the kissing, Draco is sitting up. Harry pulls him from the sofa, and they abandon the profiles in the living room as they kiss their way to Harry’s room. Draco’s hands are hot on his skin as his t-shirt is peeled off, his jeans undone and dropped to the floor, his pants discarded outside Ron and Hermione’s room. Harry reciprocates, scattering the hallway with Draco’s t-shirt, shorts, socks. His knee brace is left on, and Harry takes a moment to try and figure out how he’s going to take Draco’s pants off over them. He’s wearing tight black boxer briefs. Harry runs a finger along the waist bang, his fingertip brushing the tip of Draco’s cock.

“I’ll take them off in your room,” Draco says. Harry nods, pushing Draco backwards against his door, and pressing their lips together. Draco doesn’t pause to look around the room like Harry thought he would. Instead, he carefully slips his pants over his brace, and then he is naked and Harry can’t help but look at him. He’s pale in the low light of Harry’s room, lean and muscular, his cock curving ever so slightly. Harry wants him.

They don’t waste any more time, Draco reaching for Harry and manoeuvring him to the bed. Harry isn’t sure how Draco is going to deal with his brace, but then Draco lies on his back, dragging Harry over him so that Harry is straddling him. 

“Is this ok?” Draco asks, his hand moving close to Harry’s arse. Harry nods, pressing a fierce kiss to Draco’s lips. A whispered spell, and Draco’s slick fingers circle Harry’s hole. Harry gasps as Draco slides a finger in, rocking back on Draco’s hand, their cocks rubbing together. Harry grips the duvet either side of Draco’s head, rolling his hips. Their breath mingles together disgustingly, but Harry can’t bring himself to care. 

One finger becomes two, becomes three and soon Harry is writhing on top of Draco, needing more. He lifts himself up, positioning himself over Draco and sinking down, slowly. He’s full, like he can feel Draco in his heart, and he sits up, taking a moment to breathe. Draco’s eyes are dark as he watches Harry, slick hand on Harry’s hip.

They don’t talk as Harry starts to move, slowly. He tilts his head back, clenching his eyes as he focuses on the slide of Draco’s cock. Draco’s hand wraps around his cock and he gasps, his hips speeding up as Draco strokes him closer. He teeters on the edge, annoyed that his orgasm won’t come. With a growl, Draco presses hard with the hand on Harry’s hip, tilting him slightly and then Harry sees stars. Draco’s cock presses against his prostate and it doesn’t take long before he coming, hot, on Draco’s chest.

As he goes to collapse on Draco, Draco lifts Harry’s hips and starts thrusting in earnest. Harry’s prostate is sensitive and he moans, intense pleasure making its way up his spine into his hair. And then Draco is coming inside him, biting his lip, and Harry leans forward to kiss him.

Draco lowers him onto the bed, whispering a quick cleaning spell. They shuffle together, moving the duvet over them. Harry is exhausted, and his bed is comfortable, and it’s nice having Draco in it. He holds his arm out, pleased when Draco shuffles to rest his head on it. He thinks he says something to Draco, and he thinks Draco says something back, but he can’t make it out through the haze of sleep. Whatever it is, they can talk about it in the morning.

...

“I was thinking, maybe we should look at attack today?” Harry asks Grant as he arrives on the pitch. He got here early with Draco for a sneaky fly. Draco’s knee is feeling better, but he still can’t grip the broom if he’s flying at any speed.

“Uh, sure? You’re asking my opinion?” Grant says, looking between the two of them with confusion. Harry is standing very close to Draco, and if Grant doesn’t look too hard, they could probably hold hands. Harry likes this new development of their relationship. Draco had been the first one to slip his fingers between Harry’s when they’d gone for breakfast the day before. Harry can’t keep the smile off his face at the memory.

“I am!” he says. “So, what do you think?”

Grant looks up at the team doing flying drills above him, and Draco seems to take the moment to rest his hand lightly on Harry’s arse. Harry smirks, pushing his bum back. Grant turns back and Draco drops his hand.

“I think it would be good,” Grant says. “We could work on Paul’s catching.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Draco says, grinning at Harry. Harry grins back, touching Draco’s lower back.

“Would you be able to take him now, to run some drills?” Harry asks.

“Of course!” Draco gives him a wink and wanders off to go and get a broom and a Quaffle. Harry watches him go. He really does have a very nice arse. He turns back to Grant and immediately starts blushing. Grant is smirking at him, eyebrows wiggling. 

“So, finally shagged then,” Grant says. Harry coughs, looking up at the team and pretending to be busy, and Grant walks away laughing.

...

It’s the Wasps, the most important game of the season. Ron has even dragged Hermione, now that she’s a backer. They’re sitting in the team box, watching the game in front of them. Anna intercepts the Quaffle, passing to Paul, who catches it perfectly and speeds forward. The Wasps Chaser is on Paul’s tail, and a Bludger comes flying towards him. Hermione’s hand tightens on Harry’s arm, but Ben is there, swinging the bat and sending the Bludger at the Chaser following Paul. Paul passes the Quaffle to Charlie who speeds forward, ducking around the Wasps defensive line and chucking the ball at the hoop. The Wasps Keeper misses and around the stadium blue and silver fans erupt in cheers.

Harry shouts, but his eyes are on Toby, circling above the action. Draco is rubbing the small of his back, but Harry can tell he’s watching too. The Wasps Seeker is keeping close to Toby, and it wouldn’t take much for them to see the Snitch first and beat Toby to it. 

“They’re looking good,” Ron says, slapping Harry on the shoulder. Harry gives him a smile before turning back to Toby.

Mitchell saves a goal and passes the Quaffle to Charlie who grabs it and makes her way up the pitch again, Lucy on her tail to cover her. And then it happens. Toby moves and Harry’s eyes dart to where the Snitch is hovering just above the Wasps goal. Draco is on his feet, clearly having seen it too, and the whole stadium is cheering on their Seeker. Lucy and Ben peel away from their positions to cover Toby as he streaks towards the Snitch, the Wasp Seeker close behind him. Harry’s hand finds Draco’s, squeezing it as they watch Toby moving towards the snitch.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥


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